


White Noise

by spaceburgers



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 06:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15724191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceburgers/pseuds/spaceburgers
Summary: Kise is away on a modeling trip, and he really, really, really misses his boyfriend back home.





	White Noise

This felt like karma for that time in high school, when Yukio told Ryouta where he would be going for college, and Ryouta immediately burst into tears.

“You idiot,” Yukio said, the gruffness of his voice belying the gentle way he wiped Ryouta’s tears away with his hands. “I’m going to Chiba, not California. It’s less than an hour away by train.”

“But I’ve never been in a long-distance relationship before!” Ryouta cried, and Yukio just sighed and held him close.

“I’ll be back all the time. You’ll see,” he murmured. Ryouta sniffed and buried his face into Yukio’s shoulder, getting his shirt dirty with snot and tears. But Yukio never got mad at Ryouta for being a messy crier; it was one of the many things Ryouta loved about him, along with the fact that he never went back on his word, and so just as promised, Yukio came back home to visit at least once a month. Even when Ryouta ended up going to college in Tokyo, Yukio still made sure they saw each other on a regular basis; then Yukio graduated and moved in with Ryouta, and that was the end of that.

Until now.

“Why are you crying?” Yukio sighed, cupping Ryouta’s face in his hands. “This is a great opportunity for you.”

“I know it is!” Ryouta exclaimed. “But – a whole month!”

“It’s just a month,” Yukio said. “We’ve been dating for, what, six years now?”

“Exactly! We’ve been dating for six whole years and we’ve never been apart for longer than a few weeks! I’m going to miss you _so much_ ,” Ryouta whined.

Yukio rubbed his thumb across Ryouta’s cheek. “I’ll miss you too,” he said, softly. “But you’ll be so busy running around from place to place, you won’t even have time to be sad. You’ll be home before you know it.”

“That’s not true,” Ryouta sniffed. “I’m always sad when you’re not around.”

Yukio laughed. “You’re so embarrassing,” he said, ruffling Ryouta’s hair.

“I know,” Ryouta replied, smiling through his tears, and Yukio couldn't help but kiss him right then.

-

Ryouta was doing the fashion week circuit for the first time: New York, London, Milan, and Paris. The whole thing spanned a month – a full month of jet-setting around America and Europe. Ryouta knew that as a fresh face, the whole thing would be extra hectic for him: castings, fittings, oddly-timed shows, minimal sleep. But Yukio was right: this _was_ an amazing opportunity, one that he’d been dreaming of for years now. There was absolutely no way he’d ever be able to pass it up.

The first leg of the circuit was fine. Ryouta loved New York. It was freezing cold in February, but he loved his oversized down jacket, and he loved the cool crisp scent of winter air. It was just as busy as he expected, rushing from casting calls to callbacks to fittings, and then to the actual shows. He and the other Japanese models formed a clique of sorts, heading out to hit up a different SoHo bar each night. The only really embarrassing thing that happened to him was when one of the other models tried to hit on him; he’d very respectfully said that he was taken, and the other model had graciously backed down, except he’d made the mistake of asking Ryouta what his boyfriend was like, and apparently (he heard all this secondhand the next day because he did not remember a single thing that happened that night), Ryouta ended up crying into his drink and going on a lengthy and mostly incoherent rant about Yukio’s arms.

Obviously, he told Yukio all about it. With the difference in their time zones, there were precious few hours of the day where Yukio and Ryouta were both awake at the same time, and Ryouta took full advantage of that, making sure to text and call Yukio as much as possible when their time zones managed to align.

 **Yukio [10:19am]:** I cannot believe you said that.

 **Yukio [10:19am]:** Well, honestly speaking, I sort of can. You’ve always been a hot mess.

 **Ryouta [10:19am]:** excuse me!!!!! rude!!!!!!

 **Ryouta [10:19am]:** wait, emphasis on the hot part or the mess part?

 **Yukio [10:19am]:** That’s up to you to decide.

So New York was fine. London was fine too – it was less hectic, and he’d even had time to catch a show on the West End one afternoon. He’s called Yukio right after he stepped out of the theatre, and Yukio had panicked when he realized that Ryouta was crying on the other end, but after Ryouta started babbling about how tragic it was that Glinda would never be able to find out that Elphaba was alive after all, Yukio immediately hung up the phone.

In all fairness, it was two in the morning in Tokyo when Ryouta called, so that one was all on him.

So everything was fine. Ryouta was doing shows, enjoying cities and making friends – until Milan. Milan was when the trouble started.

It wasn’t really anything about Milan in particular. Ryouta loved the food, and the city, and the people, but the problem, plain and simple, was that Ryouta was getting tired.

It had been fun at first, running from show to show, staying out late each night. The bars, the after-parties, the glamor. But after more than two weeks, Ryouta was tired. Bone-achingly exhausted, in a way that Ryouta hadn’t been since high school, back when he was balancing classes and basketball and modelling and also his ridiculous, out-of-control crush on Yukio. Simpler times. Not like this, with the petty politics of fashion and the constant stress of being on the road and, most of all, being away from Yukio for almost three weeks now.

All he wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed, and press himself up against Yukio and listen to his heartbeat, strong and steady and real.

That was all Ryouta could think about as he lay in his hotel room bed, now about two and a half weeks into the circuit. He stared at his phone. It was midnight in Milan, which meant it was eight in the morning back home – Yukio had probably just woken up.

Ryouta pulled up Yukio’s number and hit call. Yukio picked up almost immediately.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough at the edges with sleep. Ryouta ached with how much he missed him.

“Hey,” he returned. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nah,” Yukio said. “I just got up, actually. I was checking the news – you have good timing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I just know you too well,” Ryouta said, and Yukio laughed softly.

Ryouta could picture it now: Yukio lying curled up on his side in bed – _their_ bed – scrolling through his Twitter feed for his fill of morning news. He tried to imagine what Yukio was wearing – maybe his standard fare of an old t-shirt and boxer shorts. He pictured their crisp white sheets, tangled around Yukio’s legs; sunlight pouring into the room through those sheer curtains Ryouta loved so much, the ones that diffused harsh sunlight and gave their room a soft, fairy-tale glow. He thought about what he’d do if he were there, if it was any other ordinary morning, and they were waking up together in their bed. The thought of being able to look at Yukio’s gorgeous face, to touch him and kiss him and breathe with him, almost knocked the wind right out of Ryouta, and he bit his lip hard to stop himself from crying.

“I miss you,” he whispered, and he heard Yukio exhale quietly over the phone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

There was silence over the phone. For a long moment Ryouta just lay there and listened to Yukio breathe. If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was back in their little apartment in Tokyo, lying with Yukio in bed on a lazy weekend morning. He imagined drawing Yukio in for a kiss, slow and gentle; he thought about the way Yukio liked to hold himself on top of Ryouta when they made out like that, how he liked to press Ryouta down into the mattress with a steady hand, his _arms—_

“Ryouta? Are you still there?”

Yukio’s voice cut Ryouta out of his thoughts abruptly.

He also realized he was hard. Oh.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Ryouta replied. Carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible so he wouldn’t be overheard on the phone, he undid the fly of his jeans, reaching into his briefs so that he could take himself in hand. He nearly hissed at how good it felt, but he managed to hold it back, biting down hard on his lip. God, he hadn't been touched in so _long_ , and with Yukio’s voice on the other line he could almost pretend the hand on his dick was Yukio’s, that it was Yukio stroking him right then, bold and firm.

“Ryouta,” Yukio said, and he sounded – breathless. Desperate. The realization hit Ryouta like an electric shock, and he knew there was no longer any point in trying to pretend he wasn’t touching himself listening to the sound of Yukio’s voice, because Yukio was doing the same too. Ryouta would be feeling more sentimental about it if he wasn’t so achingly hard right now.

“Yukio, what are you – what are you doing?” Ryouta panted. He could hear Yukio’s heavy breathing, the sound of sheets shifting under him. He imagined what Yukio must have looked like, with sunlight spilling all over his body and his hand in his boxer shorts, face flushed, lips slightly parted.

“Touching myself,” Yukio said. “Thinking about what I’d do if you were here.”

“Yeah?” Ryouta licked his lips. “So what _would_ you do?”

“I’d hold you down, I know how much you like that,” Yukio said. Ryouta whined in agreement, his hand speeding up as he tried to put Yukio’s words into images. “I’d hitch your legs up over my shoulders, and I’d finger you – slowly, one at a time, making sure you’re really feeling it. I’d watch your face – god, I love the way you look when I’m taking you apart like that, you always look so damn good.”

“God, yes.” Why hadn’t Ryouta had the foresight to bring lube? There was nothing he wanted more than to be able to stretch himself out, pretending the fingers moving inside of him were Yukio’s, rough and unyielding, as if determined to turn Ryouta inside out. But imagination was a powerful thing, and Ryouta occupied himself with thinking about Yukio’s face instead, the look of utter concentration he always wore when he was feeling extra determined. And having all of that focus directed at Ryouta and Ryouta alone – god, just the thought of it was enough to make Ryouta’s toes curl and his hips hitch off the bed.

“And then,” Yukio continued, “only when you’re a complete mess, only when you’re dripping all over the sheets and fucking begging for it – I’d fuck you. I’d be as rough as you want me to be.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Ryouta chanted. “Be rough with me, bend me in half, push me around, do whatever you want with me, I don’t care, just put your cock inside of me—”

“So crude,” Yukio said, but he sounded downright approving, that dirty pervert.

“Don’t stop,” Ryouta begged, feeling every nerve in his body pulled tight, the tension almost reaching its peak – god he was _so close_ , and—

“I’ve got you,” Yukio promised, and Ryouta let out one final sob, coming hard all over himself.

He knew Yukio followed right after, because he heard that telltale grunt, and then just the sound of Yukio’s heavy breathing.

For a long time Ryouta just lay there, trying to catch his breath. Vaguely, he registered that he’d just gotten cum all over his shirt and underwear, and he should probably be a little more annoyed about that, but he truly could not care less.

Yukio was the one to break the silence.

“Wow,” was all he said, and Ryouta couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up from inside of him. It was even better when he could hear Yukio joining in, chuckling in that low, throaty way that was just so _Yukio_. Ryouta’s heart clenched in his chest all over again with how much he missed him.

“I need to get home soon,” Ryouta said, “so that you can fuck me for real.”

“I knew you were just using me for sex,” Yukio sighed, and Ryouta giggled.

“Well, yeah,” Ryouta teased. “Obviously, the only reason I keep you around is for your dick.”

Yukio hummed. “Glad that’s cleared up now, then,” he said.

Ryouta rolled to his side, bringing his knees up to his chest, and smiled absently.

“In all seriousness,” Ryouta said. “I really do miss you a lot.”

“I know,” Yukio said, his voice gone soft. “I miss you too. I know you’ve been working really hard.”

“I have!” Ryouta whined, because he really was not above fishing for compliments.

“I just said that, idiot,” Yukio huffed.

“I deserve a reward when I get home,” Ryouta insisted.

“Like, a sexy reward?” Yukio asked.

“Maybe,” Ryouta said. He paused briefly. “Or maybe I just want to lie in bed with you and watch every single episode of Hana Yori Dango and cry into your shoulder.”

“Okay,” Yukio said, his voice suddenly soft. “We can do that too.”

There was a long pause where neither of them say anything, but it felt nice too, to just lie there and listen to each other breathe. Ryouta wished Yukio was right there next to him, but he’ll take as much as he can get.

“I should really get up,” Yukio said, and Ryouta glanced over at the bedside clock, which was now informing him that it was nearly past one.

“I should go to bed too,” Ryouta admitted.

“Make sure you don’t fall asleep without cleaning yourself up first, okay?” Yukio said, ever the responsible one. Ryouta smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.”

“Okay,” Yukio said. “Goodnight, Ryouta.”

“Goodnight,” Ryouta hummed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Yukio hung up first, which was good, because if it was up to Ryouta, he might have never put down the phone ever again.

Sighing, Ryouta curled up in his bed.

He still missed Yukio like crazy, but at least there was only a week and a half left. At least he knew that when he made it home, Yukio would be right there waiting for him. And maybe that thought would be able to sustain him for the rest of their time apart, right until his plane touched down in Tokyo and he could fall into Yukio’s arms again.

Before that, though, he really needed to get out of this shirt. And maybe throw it into the trash forever.


End file.
